Read Online Last to Die by Tess Gerritsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tess Gerritsen
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girl?” With his dark hair and piercing eyes, Julian was growing into a handsome young man who’d one day catch many a woman’s eye. “Details, please.”
“She’s no one special.”
“Did I just see her in class?”
“Yeah. She had long black hair. A
really
short skirt.”
“Oh. You mean the pretty one.”
“I guess.”
She laughed. “Come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Well, yeah. But I think she’s kind of a jerk. Even if I do feel sorry for her.”
“Sorry for her? Why?”
He looked at her. “She’s here because her mom got murdered.”
Suddenly Maura regretted how blithely she’d pried into his friendships. Teenage boys were a mystery to her, hulking creatures with big feet and simmering hormones, vulnerable one moment, cold and remote the next. As much as she wanted to be a mother to him, she would never be good at it, would never have a mother’s instincts.
She was silent as she followed him down the third-floor hallway, where the walls were hung with paintings of medieval villages and banqueting tables and an ivory-skinned Madonna with child. Her guest room was near the end of the hall; when she stepped inside she saw that her suitcase had already been delivered and was resting on a cherrywood luggage rack. From the arched window, she could see a walled garden adorned with stone statues. Beyond that wall the forest pressed in, like an invading army.
“You’re facing east, so you’ll get a nice view of the sunrise tomorrow.”
“All the views are beautiful in this place.”
“Mr. Sansone thought you’d like this room. It’s the quietest.”
She remained at the window, her back turned to him as she asked: “Has he been here lately?”
“He came about a month ago. He always comes for meetings of the Evensong school board.”
“When is the next one?”
“Not till next month.” He paused. “You really like him. Don’t you?”
Her silence was far too revealing. She said, matter-of-factly, “He’s been a generous man.” She turned to face Julian. “We both owe him a great deal.”
“Is that really all you have to say about him?”
“What else would there be?”
“Well, you asked me about Briana. I figured I’d ask about Mr. Sansone.”
“Point taken,” she admitted.
But his question hung in the air, and she didn’t know how to answer it.
You really like him, don’t you?
She turned to look at the elaborately carved four-poster bed, at the oak wardrobe. Perhaps they were more antiques from Sansone’s home . Though the man himself was not here, she saw his influence everywhere, from the priceless art on the walls to the leather-bound books in the library. The isolation of this castle, the locked gate and private road, reflected his obsession with privacy. The one jarring note in the room hung above the mantelpiece. It was an oil portrait of an arrogant-looking gentleman in a huntsman’s coat, a rifle propped over his shoulder, one boot resting on a fallen stag.
“That’s Cyril Magnus,” said Julian.
“The man who built this castle?”
“He was really into hunting. Up in the attic, there’s a ton of mounted animal trophies that he brought back from all over the world. They used to hang in the dining hall until Dr. Welliver said all those stuffed heads ruined her appetite, and she told Mr. Roman to take them down. They got into this big fight about whether the trophies glorified violence. Finally Headmaster Baum had us all vote on it, even the students. That’s when the heads got taken down.”
She didn’t know any of these people he was talking about, a sad reminder that she was not part of his world here, that he now had his own life far away and independent of her. Already she felt left behind.
“… and now Dr. Welliver and Mr. Roman are fighting about whether students should learn to hunt. Mr. Roman said yes, because it’s an ancient skill, but Dr. Welliver says it’s barbaric. Then Mr. Roman pointed out that Dr. Welliver
“She’s no one special.”
“Did I just see her in class?”
“Yeah. She had long black hair. A
really
short skirt.”
“Oh. You mean the pretty one.”
“I guess.”
She laughed. “Come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Well, yeah. But I think she’s kind of a jerk. Even if I do feel sorry for her.”
“Sorry for her? Why?”
He looked at her. “She’s here because her mom got murdered.”
Suddenly Maura regretted how blithely she’d pried into his friendships. Teenage boys were a mystery to her, hulking creatures with big feet and simmering hormones, vulnerable one moment, cold and remote the next. As much as she wanted to be a mother to him, she would never be good at it, would never have a mother’s instincts.
She was silent as she followed him down the third-floor hallway, where the walls were hung with paintings of medieval villages and banqueting tables and an ivory-skinned Madonna with child. Her guest room was near the end of the hall; when she stepped inside she saw that her suitcase had already been delivered and was resting on a cherrywood luggage rack. From the arched window, she could see a walled garden adorned with stone statues. Beyond that wall the forest pressed in, like an invading army.
“You’re facing east, so you’ll get a nice view of the sunrise tomorrow.”
“All the views are beautiful in this place.”
“Mr. Sansone thought you’d like this room. It’s the quietest.”
She remained at the window, her back turned to him as she asked: “Has he been here lately?”
“He came about a month ago. He always comes for meetings of the Evensong school board.”
“When is the next one?”
“Not till next month.” He paused. “You really like him. Don’t you?”
Her silence was far too revealing. She said, matter-of-factly, “He’s been a generous man.” She turned to face Julian. “We both owe him a great deal.”
“Is that really all you have to say about him?”
“What else would there be?”
“Well, you asked me about Briana. I figured I’d ask about Mr. Sansone.”
“Point taken,” she admitted.
But his question hung in the air, and she didn’t know how to answer it.
You really like him, don’t you?
She turned to look at the elaborately carved four-poster bed, at the oak wardrobe. Perhaps they were more antiques from Sansone’s home . Though the man himself was not here, she saw his influence everywhere, from the priceless art on the walls to the leather-bound books in the library. The isolation of this castle, the locked gate and private road, reflected his obsession with privacy. The one jarring note in the room hung above the mantelpiece. It was an oil portrait of an arrogant-looking gentleman in a huntsman’s coat, a rifle propped over his shoulder, one boot resting on a fallen stag.
“That’s Cyril Magnus,” said Julian.
“The man who built this castle?”
“He was really into hunting. Up in the attic, there’s a ton of mounted animal trophies that he brought back from all over the world. They used to hang in the dining hall until Dr. Welliver said all those stuffed heads ruined her appetite, and she told Mr. Roman to take them down. They got into this big fight about whether the trophies glorified violence. Finally Headmaster Baum had us all vote on it, even the students. That’s when the heads got taken down.”
She didn’t know any of these people he was talking about, a sad reminder that she was not part of his world here, that he now had his own life far away and independent of her. Already she felt left behind.
“… and now Dr. Welliver and Mr. Roman are fighting about whether students should learn to hunt. Mr. Roman said yes, because it’s an ancient skill, but Dr. Welliver says it’s barbaric. Then Mr. Roman pointed out that Dr. Welliver
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